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by Michael Lee Johnson Surreptitiously I am the dustman. I am this lazy spirit roaming, living within you weaving around your mind, vulture consuming cleaning thoughts, space, your slender body. I feel it all day, this night alone. I am your street sweeper, garbage collector of thought the alternator village dweller, walkway partner. I am key door holder to entrance man, to Summit house. For years of abuse, I am dust eater. I hang high outside on lampposts, edged inside on top wall pictures. I dim your lights yellow inside out, ghost inspector. Inside I roll the house over. I am a damp cloth, Mr. Clean, I smooth over, clutter-free, tick-tock clocks, books, antique silverware, pristine future furniture pieces solid state advances fragment mistakes etched in mind. Investigations exacerbate our relationship unhinged. My snaking gets me kicked out. I still remember those piled up old newspapers, future books, scattered across your living room floor. Shake myself, scrape out a new home, cheaper, exasperated. I am the dustman; dustpan shakes out. Copyright 2021. All rights reserved.
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